


Day 17. Swollen | Today Was Not a Good Day

by steadycoffeeflow (Salimity)



Series: Inktober 2018 [17]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Inktober 2018, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, RK900 with sharp teeth I'm told kids are into that these days, Teeth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salimity/pseuds/steadycoffeeflow
Summary: His fingers twitched, though distantly he recognized that this was the movement of servos and joints only. He’d torn into them with such abandon before, coming down off that life-fighting destruction high.





	Day 17. Swollen | Today Was Not a Good Day

**Author's Note:**

> I think I titled this because it literally had been a pretty bad day for me. This is also the last in my Inktober 2018 series, so thank you for reading. I appreciate anything I can get. Just attention really. I crave attention of any sort.
> 
> Anyways, 11, the little killer, belongs to [staticsnakes](https://staticsnakes.tumblr.com/) who is the apple of my eye while 11 is the place where misery goes to live. He's a good lad. Really.

Android components did not swell and bruise as a human’s body would following the ghostly touch of wounds that did not slay. There were alerts and warnings instead of inaudible, immutable healing and knitting of his body. Demands to see the engineer on staff. That thirium supplies were low, and where in the tower he could find more.

Weary and sagging in his usual hideaway, 11 spit out a swell of thirium that was not his own, its serial number and data assigned to something wrong. Some mistake. A scrubbed out error.

His fingers twitched, though distantly he recognized that this was the movement of servos and joints only. He’d torn into them with such abandon before, coming down off that  life-fighting destruction high.

How was he doing to turn the knob like this?

How had he ended up like this?

It wasn’t that he’d abandoned protocols. There was a deviant reported by neighbors to be living in an apartment above a clothing store off of Bowery. He’d set up just beyond its detection range, giving himself distance.

But something had gone wrong. In the wake of the thunderous retort of his rifle, something had snuck up close to him, traveled in the space between buffers of silence to conceal its noise.

It had struck 11, who, in turn, struck back.

Blow by blow until they were on the ground and 11 was  _ tearing _ into it. Serial numbers, coding, assignments and delegations of its task flowed over his tongue as his teeth bore down upon metal and wires. Deviant. Deviant deviant  _ deviant _ . It surged down his throat, wound its way into his systems and coils, stained his teeth as they pierced, razor sharp, synthetic bone-white plastic resin.

And, in the end, he’s stood before it, nothing more than limbs and torso then, having exchanged only a slash to his cheek for all its struggle and worth.

11 had been more concerned about retrieving his gun where it’d been knocked loose than seeing to his leaking cheek.

Absently, pointed fingertips ran along the jagged edge of plastic, the flesh unable to paint back over the trench of deep blue sparks.

And he’d returned to CyberLife, mission complete. He’d returned to his quiet, to his sanctuary, with his jaw still wired to bite and gnash - perhaps the damage to his face had short-circuited something. This, he contemplated, while surveying the ruination of his hands, the punctures deep within the plastic mold and involuntary fired twitches as his servos received unbidden commands from destroyed wiring.

11 ran his forearm over his face to catch the leaking thirium down his cheek, a fleeting warmth soaking into his suit, but realized only after that he’d brushed the wrong cheek.


End file.
